


Catastrophically Precocious

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: One Cannot Watch One's Footing [1]
Category: Amelia Peabody - Elizabeth Peters, Primeval
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitive young animals – including humans - are irresistibly attracted to anomalies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catastrophically Precocious

**Author's Note:**

> For one of the squares on my trope_bingo thing, ‘AU: crossover’. I crossed Primeval with the Amelia Peabody series by Barbara Mertz, under her pseudonym Elizabeth Peters: they are stories about a Victorian gentlewoman who cares for her widowed father until his death and then inherits all his money, whereupon she visits Egypt, falls in love with the country (and an Egyptologist) and proceeds to excavate archaeological sites and fight crime, accompanied by her trusty husband and equally trusty reinforced parasol. Her son Ramses is a caution in the truest sense of the word, and I felt it was inevitable that he should tumble through an anomaly.
> 
>  
> 
> “He was also alarmingly precocious. A lady of my acquaintance used that term to me… When I replied that in my opinion the adjective was ill-chosen, she believed me to be offended. What I meant was that the word was inadequate. ‘Catastrophically precocious’ would have been nearer the mark.”   
> – Amelia Peabody Emerson, discussing her son, Walter ‘Ramses’ Peabody Emerson, in the second volume of her memoirs, The Mummy Case.

            “Looks nice and stable,” Cutter declared, critically examining the anomaly. “Fantastic. Of course the setting’s not ideal -”

 

            “Yeah, pity about the cowpats,” Ryan said. The anomaly was in a field belonging to a dairy farmer; his cattle appeared to have crapped on every single square inch of it, and since the day was a warm one, the smell was fairly ripe.

 

            “I was thinking more about the fact that we can’t set up Connor’s equipment here, it’s too far from the car,” Cutter said. Connor’s latest gadget didn’t run on batteries, being only a prototype, but had to be hooked up to a car battery or other similar power source. It was also distinctly rickety: Ryan for one was convinced it would blow up the second Connor actually tried to field-test it.

 

            “Really,” Claudia said, folding her arms. Ryan knew that expression; he hid a grin. “Because _I_ was thinking about the fact that you can see it very clearly from the road.”  


            “Ach, lass, if telling a couple of wet-behind-the-ears reporters all about ball lightning is too much for you, I think you’d better call in sick and go home…”

 

            Ryan rolled his eyes. “Finn, stick your head through and see what’s on the other side.”

 

            Finn obliged. A noise of disgust issued from the anomaly, along with the words ‘sodding awful smell’, made distorted and faint by the distance between the two sides of the anomaly, and then Finn withdrew into 2006.

 

            “Dunno when it is, boss, it’s all dark. Looked like some kind of tunnel. It’s hotter than Satan’s balls. Sorry, Miss Brown.”

 

            “Never mind,” Claudia sighed.

 

            “And it stinks something rotten,” Finn finished.

 

            “Did you see anything alive?” Claudia demanded.

 

            Finn shook his head.

 

            “Good,” Claudia said feelingly, and went to intercept a stray journalist and a marauding party of schoolgirls.

 

***

 

            Ramses Emerson was about to be in trouble. He accepted this fact as inevitable and moved on. Since his parents were some distance away, the site’s actual excavator de Morgan was gullible, and he himself was neatly concealed inside a pyramid he wasn’t meant to be in, he felt that any future reprimands or punishments were at most a second-order problem. He was much, much more interested in the soft white glow just around the corner of the passageway.

 

            He was young and small for his age. A passage an older or taller boy might have needed to stoop in, he merely strolled down, prudently extinguishing his candle since it didn’t seem to be needed. He was covered in bat guano, boiling hot, and had scraped his elbows and knees badly to reach his present position, but noticed none of these difficulties. He kept walking until he had turned the corner of the passage and was face-to-face with the source of the odd white light.

 

            Ramses’ Mama often said that Ramses hadn’t stopped speaking once since he learnt to talk. She would have been astonished (and secretly pleased) to see him speechless now. Ramses had been inside far more pyramids than the average British boy of the 1890s, including a few trips his parents didn’t know about, but this was… this was something entirely new to him. The ball of crystalline light, pulsing gently, was no normal pyramid phenomenon.

 

            Ramses’ dark eyes widened. He’d heard noises earlier, as if someone were talking, but had assumed that his excellent hearing had failed him for once – there was no possible way voices could be coming from inside the pyramid, he was the only one aware of this entrance.  What if –

 

            He took a step forward, and noticed that several of the odds and ends in his pockets were tugged towards the phenomenon – the metallic ones only. When he took out his compass and squinted at it in the light provided by the phenomenon, he realised that the needle was spinning madly round and round. Startled, his grip on the compass loosened, and he let out an involuntary cry as it flew away from him, into the phenomenon – and disappeared.

 

            Well, that settled it. The compass had been a present from his father. He certainly couldn’t let it go like that.

 

            Virtuously ignoring the fact that he’d been determined to go through the phenomenon since the moment he saw it, Ramses Emerson plunged into the future.

 

***

 

            A small round metal object flew out of the anomaly and hit Connor somewhere unfortunate. Connor whimpered, almost bending in half as he doubled over, and Abby laughed and patted him on the back as she picked up the object. As she realised what it was, she stopped laughing abruptly.

 

            “It’s a compass,” she said in disbelief, and a small boy flew out of the anomaly and almost knocked her head over heels.

 

***

 

            Ramses tumbled into bright sunlight and a much cooler climate, not to mention a very large cowpat. A firm hand grabbed him by the collar and dragged him upright, then obviously repented of this; there was a noise of distaste and his rescuer wiped off his hands on the odd baggy black trousers he was wearing. Ramses looked up at the man, and deduced from the displeased expression on his face, and the frank shock on the other individuals’ faces, that they had not been expecting a boy.

 

            “Good morning,” he said politely. “Would you be so kind as to tell me where I am and who you are? And also to return my compass?”

 

            A man with dishevelled blond hair was the first to react, although Ramses noticed that all the others glanced over at a figure in grey at the top of the field, now hurrying back towards them. “You’re in England, lad,” he said, with a slight Scottish accent to his words. “I think Abby has your compass.”

 

            Ramses identified ‘Abby’ by the fact that she was the only woman present. Her – trousers? Possibly they could be referred to as trousers, under the circumstances – made that much clear. Her hair was an unusual, almost certainly unnatural shade of white-blonde, and her blue eyes were kind, though heavily ringed in kohl. She wore a colourful scarf looped around her neck, and she held out Ramses’ compass to him. Ramses took it, and offered her a slight bow. “Thank you very much, miss.”

 

            “What’s your name?” the Scot prodded.

 

            “Ramses Emerson,” Ramses answered. “And yours, sir?”

 

            “Nick Cutter,” the Scot said. “Your name isn’t really Ramses, is it?”

 

            “Everyone calls me Ramses,” Ramses said. “How do I come to be in England? I was under the strong impression that I was in Egypt, more specifically at the site of Dahshoor, near Giza, which is, of course –“

 

            “You walked through an anomaly,” said the man who had picked him up when he first fell through the phenomenon. He was clearly wearing a uniform, and although he did not resemble any of the soldiers Ramses had met, there was something about him that said ‘military’; perhaps it was the blunt diction. “What year is it, on your side? And where the hell have you been? You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

 

            “And a field full of shit,” one of the other probable soldiers muttered. “Smell like it, too.”

 

            Ramses was interested to note that although Abby undoubtedly heard these comments, she raised no objection to the language used. Nor did any of the other men reprimand the speakers for swearing in front of a lady (Ramses operated under the assumption that all female persons were to be referred to as ladies until ascertained otherwise, and the style of dress affected by both men and women strongly suggested that different social norms prevailed here, which almost certainly included markers of social class). “I was in a pyramid,” he said, feeling it was extremely unlikely that Mr Cutter or Abby or the soldiers would have any opportunity to inform his mother. “Exploring.”

 

            “Fair enough,” murmured a man who wasn’t a soldier but hadn’t spoken yet. He was very tall, with eyes as blue as Ramses’ father’s and short dark hair. He had a mild, amused expression that reminded Ramses very much of his Uncle Walter, although Ramses thought he probably spent less time in libraries. Nearly everyone spent less time in libraries than Ramses’ Uncle Walter, and besides, this gentleman looked like a sportsman, fit and healthy. “If you had access to a pyramid, Ryan, you’d go exploring too.”

 

            “Not alone,” ‘Ryan’ said firmly. “And not at the age of-“ he squinted at Ramses – “six?”

 

            “I’m seven!” Ramses said indignantly, and realised he’d just given himself away.

 

            “Where are your parents?” Ryan demanded.

 

            “At Mazghuna,” Ramses said, feeling that prevarication would be unwise. “A short walk away.”

 

            “Do they know where you are?”

 

            “Obviously,” Ramses said, meaning nothing of the kind.

 

            Ryan looked distinctly sceptical. “And your mum and dad let you wander off on your own in the depths of a pyramid, to get covered in mud and dust and some godforsaken slime –“

 

            “I can see how you might have come to label it as ‘godforsaken slime’, but I assure you, it is only a spot of bat guano –“

 

            “Bat poo, then, that makes it much better, I don’t think. What have you got to say for yourself?”

 

            “That I know much, much more about pyramids than you do,” Ramses said promptly, nettled. “I assure you, I am more than capable of taking care of myself, particularly under these special circumstances. I have been raised to the study of Egyptology –“

 

            “You’re _seven_.”

 

            “As I said, I have been raised to the study of Egyptology, and if you’ll allow me to say so, Mr Ryan – I apologise, I don’t know your rank – I do not appreciate your constant interruptions!”

 

            “Christ,” Abby said, staring at him. “I’m sorry, did you say you were seven?”

 

            “Oi, be fair,” said a dishevelled man with rather long dark hair and an ill-advised hat. “I was trying to build computers when I was seven, he was obviously… eating dictionaries.”

 

            “I am engaged in the study of hieratic,” Ramses said austerely, and proceeded to explain, in detail, what hieratic was and precisely how it was derived from the better-known hieroglyphic system of writing. He watched most of his audience’s eyes glaze over, and was then interrupted by the figure in grey who had been rushing towards them. She had had rather a lot of field to cross. He’d got quite a long way through his speech.

 

            “Oh, no,” she said despairingly and without regard for the education of her colleagues. “Oh, God, no. Shut up, Ramses Emerson.”

 

            Shock stopped Ramses mid-word, resulting in an undignified croak, and he stared at the lady. If Abby was a doubtful case in that regard, she certainly was not, despite her clothing (which was only a little less tight, and also involved trousers). Her accent settled that question easily. She was more expensively and conservatively dressed, with longer hair and less in the way of cosmetics, and she was looking at Ramses with consternation. Ramses stared back at her, noticing an odd familiarity to her features – something about the straight nose and pronounced chin that recalled his mother – although her brown hair and brown eyes were totally unlike Amelia Emerson. An engagement ring but not a wedding band flashed on the fourth finger of the lady’s left hand; Ramses noticed that Ryan the soldier had gravitated towards her, taking up an apparently unconscious protective stance.

 

            It was nice not to be underestimated, Ramses thought, experiencing a pleasant warm glow in the centre of his chest where his heart technically wasn’t.

 

            “Do you know this boy, Claudia?” Cutter demanded.

 

            “Not personally,” ‘Claudia’ said, rather feebly. “I mean, he’s only a distant relative and I’m from the heretic branch of the family that took to Romans rather than Egyptians in any case, but – look, the stories are fairly vivid, and there’s a family memoir by his son that goes into some detail about the things he got up to. It’s very absorbing. It was my adventure story as a child – forget Nancy Drew or the Chalet School, this was the real thing. I read it when I’m stressed. There’s a photograph of him as a boy, he looks _just_ like - right down to the disgusting gloop all over him -” She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. “You _are_ Ramses Emerson, aren’t you? Walter Peabody Emerson, known as Ramses?”

 

            “Certainly,” Ramses said. “And if I might enquire how –“

 

            “Claudia. Claudia Brown. How old are you and what year is it?”

 

            “I am seven years of age and the year is 1894. Might I –“

 

            “No,” Claudia Brown said firmly, and Ramses shut his mouth with a snap. Her resemblance to his Mama might be fleeting, but that stern tone was instantly recognisable. “Go back through the anomaly. You’re my great-grandfather, and you have a lot to be getting on with.”

 


End file.
